Dog Didn’t Want to Go to Church


Dog was an anarchist; he didn’t like dogma. Dog thought people following the word of a man who died 2000 years ago, if indeed he ever existed, was dangerous. Even more so when those people were allowed jobs that affected the lives of others. Dog was glad there were no religious dogs. Dog didn’t think religious people should be allowed to be politicians or lawmakers or cops. Dog didn’t like politicians or lawmakers. Dog especially didn’t like cops. He thought their role was only to protect the interests and property of the rich at the expense of the workers. He thought the only job of the police was to stop the poor gaining power. He’d seen the footage of the Greek protest dog and it had led him to become conscious of class. He’d realised that dogs like him could organise and spread equality. He found himself questioning every structure that until now he had assumed was normal. Just the way things were. Dog liked fetching balls and sticks and bringing them back to the man who fed him, but he worried he was exploiting his labour. Dog listened to David Rovics and Crass and Subhumans. He thought The Clash were sell-outs. He didn’t think Billy Bragg was radical enough, but he believed in a united left so he listened to him from time to time. Dog sympathised with the cause of the IRA and approved of armed struggle but didn’t like the killing of civilians. Dog used to sit on the lap of the man who fed him when he thought he seemed sad and let him stroke his hair, but he never liked it. Dog hated when the man who fed him referred to him as my dog. He didn’t believe that a living thing could be owned. He didn’t believe that a lot of non-living things could be owned. He hated that he depended on the man who fed him, in order to be fed. He dreamt of one day going back to his roots and living free in the forest. He dreamt of a time before the social contract. He was part of the camp that believed Jean-Jaques Rousseau was a proto-anarchist. He was torn because of Proudhon’s dislike of Rousseau and his own love of Proudhon. Dog attended many protests as part of the black bloc. Dog knew how to tie a t-shirt around his head in such a way that it would cover all of his face, except for his eyes. It hung loosely off his muzzle. Tying it was difficult without thumbs, but his comrades had always helped. Dog was lucky enough to never be arrested. He was hit with tear gas on a number of occasions. It hurt him the same as it hurt a human. Dog had been kicked by police several times. He had felt their steel toe-caps bending his ribs. He knew this was the only way they could achieve an erection. He mourned his lack of opposable thumbs and subsequent inability to ignite a petrol bomb. Dog debated leaving the man who fed him and joining a squat in Hackney. Dog debated eating only vegan food that he could source from bins outside large supermarkets. Dog enjoyed the meals that he was given by the man who fed him. He knew that meat was murder but he liked it. He also liked the cushion next to the fire on which he slept. He had slept on it for years and it fit his body and smelt how he liked it. He knew the difference between personal and private property. Dog was getting old and couldn’t run like he used to. He struggled more and more to avoid cop’s jackboots. He struggled to remember all of the words to The Internationale in Spanish and in French. More of his comrades went to prison. He still wrote to them and wore his solidarity with all anarchist prisoners badge, but he grew disillusioned with the movement overall. He had hoped that the wave of right-wing populism across the globe would result in a more unified left but instead he noticed much more infighting between the communist and anarchist groups. He noticed that the new generation were more interested in sharing Marxist memes than organising. More and more he chose to stay on his cushion by the fire. He started to find the memes quite funny. He liked it when they said something about seizing the memes of production. That was funny. That was definitely funny. When he died, he left a little puddle of piss on his cushion by the fire. The man who fed him burnt it in the back garden.  

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